


Bonds and Restraints

by tiliquain



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bondage, Clothed Sex, Dirty Talk, First Time, Fuck Or Die, Hand Jobs, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Marriage, Mating Bond, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mind Meld, Oral Sex, Pon Farr, Rope Bondage, Rough Sex, Sexual Repression, Soul Bond, Telepathy, Vulcan Biology, Vulcan Culture, Vulnerable Spock, spirk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-20 07:55:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19988704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiliquain/pseuds/tiliquain
Summary: Spock struggles with his sexually repressed upbringing when the blood fever hits. (Pretty standard K/S Pon Farr story, self-indulgently focusing on the aspects of it that push my buttons the most. I have no shame. Spock totally does, though.)





	Bonds and Restraints

It has not been seven years. 

But this half-human body has never been trustworthy. 

It may have been the frustration of his first cycle never being consummated. The ritual combat, perhaps, was for him not a resolution but only a delay, staving off the inevitable for a year or two.

It has only been... two? Two and a half? He cannot think. He cannot state times to the second decimal place. His mind is burning away.

"Spock?"

The captain is here, because of course he would be here, now, in Spock's quarters. Standing a meter apart from him. Spock has been trying to inform him that he wishes to be alone, to usher him out of his room, but of course Jim has not moved yet.

Like the first time. Questioning him, because of course he has seen, by now, that something is wrong. And this time he has the benefit of the first time. And soon-- Spock burns in shame-- soon he will see it. Soon he will-- speak of it. 

"A few years ago," Jim says, "you told me something, in strictest confidence."

And here it is. Spock cannot bear this.

"It nearly killed you before you told me. That was how hard it was for you to say it. And so... I promised, Spock, I promised never to make you speak of it again."

He steps closer, his voice becomes quieter, as if that will somehow make the words hurt less. "And I am... deeply, terribly sorry. But... I must know." Quieter still, closer still. "Has it come back?"

And of course Jim does not need to hear an answer. Of course his intuition can read the admission all over Spock's cursed face, the face that should not be able to reveal such shame. 

"And we don't need to speak of it now." Backing off. Hiding, for Spock's sake, behind the walls of formality again. "Shall I divert the course to Vulcan?"

Spock is grateful for the attempt. But he shakes his head. "No. That will not help." And because he owes Jim the truth, because he knows there is no point in evading now, he does not wait for Jim to press further. 

"She... she broke the mating bond, when she challenged. So I can no longer be drawn to the place of Koon-ut-kalifee."

And Jim's intuition is already jumping ahead. A hand, gentle, on Spock's shoulder. "But-- is there someplace else you are drawn to?" 

Tightening of fingers. "Is there... someone?"

Eye contact-- and Spock knows he is lost. 

It is all over him, like the shame he cannot hide, like the burning of his blood that Jim must be able to feel beneath his hand, as his touch kindles the fire higher and higher.

Jim's eyes widen, lips part, breath draws softly in. 

Spock can no longer face him. Eyes down, face turned. "Jim."

The captain's voice is as gentle as the hand that's still on Spock's shoulder. "What do you need? Tell me. So I can help."

Breath catches in Spock's throat, heat throbs between his legs. 

Somewhere deep down, he has always known that Jim would respond this way, offering himself at once, without protest. That Jim is his for the asking, and always has been. 

He has always known, deep down, that a fear of Jim's rejection has never been what stopped him. 

"I-- I am so sorry. So sorry. Jim. I never meant for it to be you. I should have-- distanced myself, long ago--"

"Spock. Please, forgive my questions, I know how difficult this is for you. But I need to understand. You are trying to say that you are... drawn to me? That your... urge is focusing on me?"

A tortured nod. Spock cannot find his voice.

"May I assume that means that I'm able to give you what you need? That your... condition doesn't necessarily require a partner who is... either Vulcan or female?"

The shame is crushing. Spock can barely breathe. 

Every word is a gift, an offer of everything his traitorous body lusts for, and he is without control, stripped naked of the mask that a Vulcan, a real Vulcan, should never, ever, ever allow to falter. He cannot bear it, the knowledge that his captain can see, in his eyes and mouth and limbs and burning skin, the degree to which each word spoken increases his arousal. 

No control. To be seen like this. It would kill any true Vulcan.

"Jim." The sound of the name is both plea and protest. He must accept, and yet he cannot, the shame is too great. "Jim. I-- I am so sorry."

Panic traces the edges of Jim's color-changing eyes. "Oh no. Spock. God, no. Spock, no, I'm so sorry. If--if it can't be me, there has still got to be a way, I'll find a way--"

"No. Jim. That is not--" The panic is contagious, it catches hold in Spock's throat and he can't, he can't let it continue even if it means saying everything, giving up every modesty, stripping himself bare. "Jim. Yes. You are... everything I need. There is no physical reason you cannot..." 

The words for what Jim can do, to help him, are lost, melting into a lava flow of imagined sensations. Spock will lose himself if he tries to speak of that, right now. 

"It is only that... I am... I am so... Jim. My control is going to break, and I... I... am..." 

It is going to happen now, there is no possibility otherwise. It has begun. There is no longer any chance Jim will back out, at this point. And Spock will soon be biologically incapable of backing out, with Jim here, touching, offering himself. It cannot be stopped now. It is going to happen, and his burning blood is rejoicing and throbbing in anticipation of it, even as his mind crumbles into a new panic at the inescapable reality of... control lost, dignity burned away, logic overcome by lust, Jim seeing him, seeing him, reduced to this madness.

"I am..." He tries to put his fear and humiliation into words, struggles to get those words through his mouth. "I am going to do things to you, unspeakable things that I am -- ashamed, to be thinking of, right now. To be..." He can barely say the last word. "...Wanting."

Jim's lips are fuller now, pupils expanded, skin flushed, human signs of arousal. "Oh yes. Your control, Spock. I know. But don't worry. I understand." 

And now his voice lowers in volume, and somehow this makes it stronger, intensifies its power to inflame Spock's fever.

"Those mental shields that you have up most of the time. I'm not sure if you realize it, but they are beginning to fail. You're a strong telepath. This room is already quite suffused with your... desires."

Spock's face is aflame. 

He had not felt the shields break in the past few seconds, but he is aware of it now. Every Vulcan member of his family, dead or alive, anywhere in the galaxy, is looking down on him right now with eyes he can feel. Cold Vulcan disapproval. Can the blood fever not work more quickly to end his life?

"I don't know if this helps at all. But by human standards they're... really very normal and healthy desires. You seem to think they ought to disgust me. But, if your powers of observation are not too impaired..." 

Jim is drawing closer now, the hand sliding from Spock's shoulder down his back. "I'm sure you can tell what they are actually doing to me."

Yes. Yes. He can feel it, feel Jim's arousal in the air, mixing with his own, through his broken shields. He can see the symptoms on the human face, he can-- oh yes, oh no-- he can even feel the pressure between Jim's legs, against his own thigh, as Jim draws even closer. 

Flame. His mind cannot last any longer. Everything will soon dissolve into flame. 

But Jim is not so much embracing him as-- guiding him, turning him, directing him toward the bed. 

"You're about to collapse. Lie down."

He is on his bed now, on his side, half curled around the fire in his groin as if he somehow feels he can still hide it from Jim. He has been hard for what feels like days now, erect like a rutting animal, tight against the seam of his uniform, for so long that he has forgotten what it was like not to be feeling that pain. 

But it aches in a new, shuddering, frustrating wave, as Jim lies down beside him. Does not touch him, yet, and they are both still in uniform, but-- Jim. He is so, so close. 

"I... I could hurt you." Spock's voice is rough. "Please. I may not be able to control my strength when the madness overtakes me. You must restrain me--"

Jim nods. "That's fine. Anything else I should know?" 

"Please. Do not take this lightly. I-- There is danger. If you stay with me, when control breaks, I will not only ravage your body, I will claim your mind as well." Spock still knows, deep inside, that nothing he says can dissuade Jim. And there is almost no part of him left that even wants to push Jim away, now. 

But there is a part that will feel some relief if he can let Jim go into this knowing everything, consenting meaningfully. "The mental bond--" 

Jim nods again, remembering words from last time. "Less than a marriage, more than a betrothal?"

"No. No. The bond that forms during consummation. More than a marriage." He burns hotter, thinking of how much he longs for it. But Jim needs to know. "I will try to hold myself back, but I-- I will fail. In close proximity to you, even if I am restrained, it will happen. Your mind will no longer be your own."

Jim looks too unconcerned, too carefree. "I... assume your father and mother went through this together? He doesn't seem to have subsumed her mind."

"It does not appear so, on the surface. But nor are they free, either of them. As long as they both live, they cannot leave each other-- they cannot even want to. The ability to wish for that is closed off to them. As is the ability to desire anyone else. The bond holds their emotions enslaved."

"And how different is that from the bond between any two people who love each other?"

And Jim does touch him now, as if he has no fear of the things Spock is warning him about-- as if he does not even care that his touch is burning away control with every second. One hand rests where it was before, on Spock's shoulder. The other begins on his opposite shoulder, but moves almost immediately downward, across his collarbone, his chest. 

"You know I've always loved you, Spock. It could have remained a brotherly love. I would have been just as happy, just to have you by my side. But, I promise you, it has always been enough love for this." 

The hand on his shoulder moves upward for a moment to cup the side of his face, and Spock's breathing rasps, he leans into it. Just the touch of skin, anywhere on him, makes hm harder, makes his erection leap, his hips move against his will. He groans in the shame of it, Jim speaking of brotherly love and his own body displaying this unspeakable lust. 

Of course Jim can see it now, everything. But he's still speaking, that soft, earnest voice still shows no tone of the hate that Spock feels for himself at this moment.

"I'd be lying if I said I hadn't thought of this." The hand tightens on his face for a second, then slides, so gently, down his neck. "I have. But you never showed any sign of... Well. There were moments, when I thought..."

He shakes his head slowly. "But I could see that-- even if maybe there was a part of you that wanted it-- this was not something you would choose. Yet. So... So I let it go. Found other outlets. Taught myself not to see you that way. Because just to have you with me-- my loyal officer, my friend-- was worth everything to me. I wouldn't do anything that could hurt what we already had."

Spock sighs, almost a growl. "But others have not been just-- outlets. You have-- desired others. Loved them." And, if the words come out with a sharp edge of jealousy, that is not Spock, that is the the fever, the primitive beast already beginning to take hold of him.

"But I don't need to. If I stop desiring others, I won't mind. Not if I have you." 

His hands, his hands. They are both moving now. Exploring. Meandering. 

"Do you have the ability to mate? Out of season, I mean?"

"I-- Yes. I believe I do." He can barely breathe. He does not know how he is able to speak. Fire.

"You believe?" To Spock's wonder, there is no worry there, only a gentle amusement. As if this does not even matter so much. Or as if Jim already knows the answer.

"I have... I have not done so," he tries to explain. "Mated. But there have been times when logic, control, were all that held me back from it. From-- from going to your quarters in the night, and-- and begging. As I am doing now."

His words are not exactly begging, he knows, but he also knows Jim can hear the raw note of begging in his voice.

And perhaps it's that, or perhaps it's the revelation in his words, but for some reason this is the moment that Jim's hands resolve their aimless wandering into purpose.

"My quarters?" 

Spock struggles to hear and understand him, to breathe through the pounding of his blood. Because while Jim's mouth whispers the question near his ear, Jim's hand is opening the closure of Spock's uniform trousers, and so, so gently easing free the flesh that has strained the fabric tight for what feels like eons. 

Yes. Yes. He burns, pushes into the touch, cries out in need.

And while Jim cups a hand around him, learns the shape of his erection, explores with his fingers the heat of the skin and the alien ridges-- deciphers the --ah! yes-- the uncontrollable frantic jerks of Spock's hips to find the right rhythm for stroking-- his other hand reaches around Spock's shoulders and holds him close, their faces almost touching. 

"You... thought of me? Wanted me? Before this began?" 

Through all the contact of their skin he can feel Jim's deep, warm realization. Suspected, now confirmed, with a burst of triumph. And, growing from it, Jim's bittersweet fusion of... regret for time lost... and relief that this is-- oh yes, oh thank god-- really what Spock wants, and would want even if the fever weren't holding the reins. 

That Spock's emotions are his own, not enslaved to the bond that his body will force upon him. That Spock has longed to choose this, fought against the repression of his upbringing to be able to choose it, and still could not, but still longs to with all his heart, even though he is beyond ashamed of it happening like this.

He feels Jim's breath of relief, then feels Jim react to it. Feels Jim-- wanting. Freeing years of long-bottled feelings. For him.

Spock arches up and moans. "So many times." 

The memories are melting through his shields like hot steam, Jim can surely remember them now too. The nights of his own wanting, and trying to beat down the wanting with shame (irrational... emotional... not a true Vulcan...) and failing, giving up, just a little, giving in to the overwhelming temptation and allowing himself, for a few delicious and shameful moments, to want. 

"Got hard, thinking of me? Touched yourself, thinking of me?" As Jim's hand slides up and down the painfully erect length, his face moves too close to Spock's as he murmurs, and Spock can feel his breath, the vibration of his speech, and his own throat makes sounds he cannot hold back. To--to hear Jim saying such words...

"Came in your hands, gasping my name?" Jim whispers this right up against Spock's ear. 

Spock's whole body jolts-- the words, the image, the breath against the point of his ear, an erogenous spot he didn't know he had-- it pushes his desire, all at once, past some precipice he hadn't known was there. The touch that had been feeling like not-quite-enough is now, suddenly, just-enough, and the loss of control begins as a tingle in the backs of his thighs and then explodes to overtake him in one hard wave, to the tips of his toes and the top of his scalp as he throws his head back and gasps.

"Jim." And the memory comes true again, except this time it is really Jim's hand he's coming in, spilling himself in waves until the hand sliding around him is lubricated with his own fluid, and still Jim keeps stroking, tight and hard, because he can feel it, the sensation suffused in the air, that even now it's not really enough. Spock thrashes and tosses his head to one side and the other and keeps thrusting, groaning, into the unbearably perfect tight wet pressure and it's still not enough. The greed of his body, flaring to life, a fire that keeps growing, demanding more fuel to burn.

It's such delicious pain and pleasure and at the same time it is so humiliating he can't bear it, to be like this-- worse, to be seen like this. He wonders if maybe some of the Vulcans who die of pon farr die just from shame they cannot endure. 

And yet this is not enough to kill Spock, not yet. And he feels this must be because of Jim. That maybe he can bear being seen like this, can only just bear it, because it is Jim seeing him-- Jim whom he trusts with everything in the universe. 

And because Jim's face, looking at him, is not the face of semi-hidden disapproval that he would expect from any Vulcan. To Spock's wonder, it is a face he recognizes well. It is Jim's face for appreciation of beauty. 

The face that has looked on all the wonders of the cosmos, including, Spock cannot forget, many wonders whom Jim carnally desired. Focused now on him, on Spock, Spock in his most shameful time, Spock with no control. As if this were as beautiful as anything Jim has ever seen.

To be the object of that look... perhaps it could cure anything deadly in the universe.

"Oh--" And then Jim's face changes as the waves reach him fully. Their bodies are in sync now, maybe the overflow of Spock's shields is that strong or maybe the bond is beginning already, but Spock sees his captain's mouth fall open, his eyes half close and a tremor run through his muscles, as an animal sound of pleasure escapes his throat. At once Spock realizes that Jim's hips are also resting close against his, because there is a sudden hard thrust against him, synchronized with Jim's groan and the last shudder of Spock's own climax.

It's only once Jim slides a hand against the stain on his front, shivers at the sensation and realizes the alienness of it-- that he's made himself come, untouched in his clothes, just by touching Spock-- that his other hand finally pauses for a moment. Loosens its grip on Spock's still-hard erection. His eyes sharpen, strain, to see through the fog of need, to assess the situation like the captain he is.

"I'll be back," he says, pulling away and getting to his feet as if it physically hurts him. "I promise. Soon. I just have to get some... supplies. Wait for me." 

Spock waits, Jim's absence fanning the flames. 

He thinks of things he has read, about what a human might mean by "supplies" in this context-- things he has read while assuring himself that his curiosity was only scientific. But there is no scientific thought in him now, as he imagines Jim finding lubricant, imagines Jim preparing himself, cleaning and slicking and stretching his inner passage for--

Spock's thighs pulse again with the warning tingle of orgasm, and he makes an impossible sound and clenches his fingers in the sheets. He needs touch to finish it. Any touch, he feels sure even the lightest would be sufficient. But Jim's touch is still so fresh in his mind that it is somehow a sweeter pleasure to deny himself his own touch while thinking of Jim's. Soon he will be back, soon--

It feels like millennia, but at last he hears the door open.

When Jim approaches the bed, Spock can smell it immediately. Jim is prepared. The musky scent of Jim's body and the saline hint of an enema are thickly coated over with the faint sweetness of a silicone-based lubricant. Proof that some of the speculation was correct, and further fuel to Spock's fire... making him clench his eyes shut in humiliation, at how violently his body responds to the thought of what awaits him between Jim's thighs. 

Fear rises with the desire. Already he may be beyond the ability to hold back his full strength, once he begins--

But the fear is banked when he sees what is immediately visible in Jim's hands: a coil of maximum-strength nano-parsecord, black and smooth and deceptively soft.

"This can tow a shuttlecraft. It will hold you no matter how much you lose control. May I?"

"Yes." He throws his head back in relief. "Yes."

"Anything else before I begin?"

"Now. I am ready." Spock holds out his arms, parts his legs.

A head tilt, a sparkle of amusement. "Your uniform?"

Spock blushes hot, shakes his head. "N-no. Leave it on." 

He knows there is no logic in this. Jim has already stripped him naked in every way that matters. He is already exposed, swelling from his open fly, sticky with ejaculate and still achingly erect-- how can he think he still has any dignity to preserve with clothing? 

But it is a symbol of dignity, and somehow that still comforts him, however little sense it makes.

Jim nods, not judging. "Whatever you want."

The bunk has no headboard or footboard or posts, but Jim manages, looping the cord beneath the bed before he wraps it, gently, firmly, around Spock's wrists and ankles-- removing his boots, setting them aside before binding his legs, but leaving everything else. He has a sailor's skill with knots, and probably some other experience more like this than Spock would prefer to know. 

Spock pulls against the bindings and is satisfied-- the cord shows no sign of weakness, and just enough softness and flexibility that he can pull with most of his strength without pain. He is safe. Jim is safe. 

Slowly, Jim moves to rest beside him on the bed. Spock becomes aware, now, of details beyond Jim's scent and what his hands were holding-- observation is unreliable now, realizations come slowly. Jim has changed clothing, he is wearing a short robe of some smooth shiny black fabric. Probably nothing else. The fabric is cool against Spock's fevered skin as Jim leans softly to rest his head on Spock's outstretched, bound arm. 

Spock turns his head to look. Jim's eyes are still dark with arousal, his cheeks still flushed. He is smiling, a smile that tries to be the charming seductive smile he shows potential lovers-- or maybe the smile he shows Spock when he teases him, Spock can't tell anymore, he is only just now realizing how alike the two smiles are.

But this one is both and not quite either. There is something different beneath it, a hidden tremor, a heart beating too fast, as if perhaps this means more to Jim than any of the usual occasions for that look. 

"I'm yours," he says, and his palm rests on Spock's chest through the uniform blue. "Anything. Anything you need."

The touch is fire. Spock burns, and burns, and cannot find words to say.

"Shall I..." Jim falters, experiences his own struggle for the right words. "How familiar are you, exactly, with the... the variety of, ah, sexual activities that are possible between... two male humanoids?"

Spock draws breath sharply in. His imagination supplies sights, sounds, sensations, far too readily now, just from those words. 

In a span of seconds he feels every one of those sexual acts take place, but the tactile hallucinations cut off just before release, leaving him panting, bucking his hips with his ragged breaths, feeling his heart pound in his cock as it swells impossibly harder, chafing at every touch of the fabric around it, the fly of his pants, the blue velour of his uniform shirt, as it curves up hard against his stomach. He wants, he wants, he wants.

"--Quite--familiar--" he manages to answer, forcing the words through a throat that aches.

Jim's head tilts, nods in appreciation. "You've researched."

"--Extensively."

The nodding continues. the appreciative look doesn't waver. "I would have expected nothing less from you." The words sound genuine, absurdly normal, like something Jim might say on the bridge, an everyday expression of respect for his science officer's scientific mind. If there is any teasing in it, right now, it is well-hidden-- although Spock cannot imagine Jim having any respect for his mind now, a mind that falls apart and burns to ashes.

"So." The hand on Spock's chest presses a tiny bit harder. The eyes look a bit more directly into his. A faint smile, again, this one enigmatic in its own way. "Recommendation, Mr. Spock? There are numerous options. How shall we begin?"

His back arches, he thrusts against the air. It is impossible for him to answer. What he wants is everything, everything-- every one of those exquisite forbidden acts at once, a temporal and spatial impossibility. He cannot rank them or choose. 

And at the same time he cannot-- cannot possibly-- bring himself to speak aloud the name or description of any one of them. 

Shame heats his skin to burning, beyond even the burning of the blood fever, at the thought of it. To admit that he wants any of it-- to let his mouth name one of these... emotional, illogical, human perversions and then beg for it-- the entirety of his Vulcan half claws tight at him to keep the words from escaping.

"Jim," he moans. "A-anything. Anything." 

Jim nods acknowledgement. And the decision happens, in Jim's intuitive way-- his hands are now on either side of Spock's chest, his face above Spock's, his legs straddled across Spock's hips for a second in which Spock cries out and bucks beneath him and nearly comes. 

But the ropes hold him back just enough, and Jim is still moving, adjusting his position until he is kneeling between Spock's open legs, carefully for the moment avoiding contact where Spock so urgently, violently wants it.

Eyes meet again. Jim's tongue runs over his own lips, leaving damp shine and pink flush. Spock can feel it, just from how madly he longs to feel it. His cock pulses, against his will, a small spurt leaks from the tip and runs slowly down the shaft, taunting him, being not quite what he longs for.

Jim is watching it. Jim is seeing his control fall apart. 

Jim licks his lips again.

Hands under Spock's shirt, then, lifting it just a little. Mouth on his side, his belly, a scatter of soft kisses. Hands on his hips, firmly now, restraining Spock's motion beyond what the bonds on his hands and feet can accomplish. He now can barely move, even his bucking hips are stilled, reduced to a tense quake, a buildup of potential energy that Jim cultivates like a stoked fire. 

The hands stay there, stronger than Spock had realized Jim was, still holding him down as Jim's head bows once more. One more kiss, open-mouthed, with a touch of tongue, at the base of his erection, and everything goes fire-white for a moment. 

But as he fades, panting, back into reality, into Jim's eyes as they gaze up expectantly trying to contact his, he finds that he hasn't climaxed yet. Jim knows, he can feel-- the bond, the telepathic overflow-- just exactly how much it takes. And Jim is taking his time, as much as he can right now.

"I'm going to use my mouth on you," he says. "Is that all right?"

The feeling, the concept of "yes" is wrenching Spock's entire body so hard that the spoken word "yes" barely makes it through. 

But Jim hears it, and nods. 

"Tell me," he murmurs, "when you're about to come." 

Spock finds that an odd request, because their sensations are so intertwined now. Does Jim not realize? The connection has been flashing in and out, but it cannot help but strengthen, become more steady, as their contact increases. Surely Jim will be able to feel when-- that moment-- is near-- without Spock needing to warn him?

But the mystery is irrelevant, because everything is irrelevant now, because Jim's hands, and the pressure, and his lips, and oh, his tongue, yes-- god yes-- fuck yes-- human profanities crowding in Spock's throat and not quite escaping, maybe just because there's no room for any words in the hyperventilating storm of his breath.

He writhes, twists, the mouth is all around him now, wet, smooth, hotter than a human mouth has any right to feel against skin as fevered as Spock's. Pulling him in. Sucking on him. 

It's obscene and human and so, so perfect and oh, Jim's tongue is still moving inside that wet vacuum, exploring... oh, fuck yes, touching him, licking up the shaft and in between the two ridges of the head and-- He throbs and gasps and oozes another drop into Jim's mouth, and Jim can taste it, Spock can taste it, oh, it's going to be over so fast now--

Spock's voice finds its way into his hard breaths, first just turning them into wordless cries and groans, but then managing words, he doesn't know how. Except that he knows Jim asked for words, and apparently there's something in him that cannot deny Jim anything he asks for, even when it had seemed that all speech was burnt away to leave him a mindless beast. 

There are still words after all, and they burst out between gasps, breathy and anguished but they are words. "Jim. I'm going to-- ahh--" He can't remember any clinical term now, all he can remember is the word he just heard in Jim's voice. "--going to-- c-come. Jim. ah!-- I-I'm coming--"

And it happens as if the words were the final push to make it true. The orgasm is a violent tingling shudder through his legs and hips, a bucking frenzy of his muscles, a constellation of electric arcs between all the most sensitive spots of his body, sparks from his pulsing cock to his nipples, the tips of his fingers, the small of his back, the points of his ears, and it all bursts into flame and he comes and comes and comes.

Jim heard him speak, Spock can sense it, but Jim shows no sign that he needed the warning. His head moves in perfect rhythm with Spock's hips, his mouth stays tight around him... even when the muscles of his lips and cheeks begin to vibrate on Spock's flesh in a symphony of uncontrollable moans. 

Spock spasms and shudders into the pleasure of it, even as he can feel the foot of the bed rocking with Jim's thrusts against it, feel the echoes of Jim's pleasure reverberate through the strengthening bond, and know that Jim is coming too. 

But through it all Jim's hands clasp Spock's hips tight against his face, tongue caressing the tremors out of him, throat contracting around him as Jim takes him in as deep as he can and swallows everything.

The convulsions gradually calm to trembling and then to gasping stillness. For the first time since this began, Spock feels the edge has been taken off-- he is still mostly erect, but for once no longer painful. The relief allows him to lie back and almost relax for a few moments, his breath slowing a little, his heart beating slowly enough to feel the individual beats for once.

Jim's mouth leaves him, finally. Jim's face, so much more flushed and scandalous now, comes closer as Jim brings himself into a more comfortable position, on his side against Spock's side, hand resting once more on Spock's chest. 

The smile is back, lopsided and affectionate with a mysterious apologetic hint in it. Spock's eyes ask a wordless question.

"I just wanted to hear you say it," Jim admits.

Spock's skin blushes fever-hot, and he is not sure he can fully tell shame from arousal anymore.

A few moments pass without much motion, Jim just resting against his side. The fever ebbs and flows, manageable for a while.

"Thank you," Spock says, barely audible to human ears. 

"Oh, it was my pleasure, really. That was..." For a moment Jim cannot find words, only a soft breath. "I felt it. What you felt. Everything. My mouth. Ohh." 

The words make it hard to keep the flame at bay much longer. It is not many minutes before it begins to burn hot again.

Spock groans and arches, suddenly hard enough to ache. He feels Jim's not-quite-surprise as Jim's own body answers him, pulled back to arousal more quickly than a human body ever would be under normal circumstances. He feels Jim rubbing against him, hard again, shameless, enjoying this more than he has any right to. 

Jim's mouth near his ear, again, delighting in what he's learned about the sensitivity of Spock's ear tips. "I've prepared myself," he whispers-- too close, too much breath, on purpose. "Lubricated myself inside. In case you need--" 

Ahh-- He can smell the lubricant again; he is once again vividly aware of what he realized earlier. Yes. Oh yes. Suddenly, violently, he does need it. Now. Right now. He does not know if this specific act is necessary to his survival-- but as far as his burning blood can tell, it might as well be. 

Jim is already rubbing himself right between Spock's legs, their cocks sliding together, all hardness and softness and warm, damp arousal, and as exquisite as this feels, Spock twists and strains to position himself, to bring his thrusts lower. He can feel-- little flashes whenever Jim's buttocks and thighs brush against him, he can feel the wetness of the lubricant, he can-- fuck, yes-- so, so close, he wants, he wants--

Jim's hands are suddenly holding the bottle of lubricant, Spock doesn't know where he got it from, just now, and doesn't care. He's giving Spock's eyes that torturous seductive look as he opens it, pours a small amount into his palm. Rubs his palms together.

One hand reaches around behind Jim's own back. Suddenly-- ah!-- Spock can feel a flash of what Jim feels as he slicks the opening to his body, once again, making extra sure of its readiness. But Spock has no time to react to this strange, invasive pleasure before Jim leans forward and--

And now there's also a hand on Spock's fever-hot shaft, a tight slippery hand moving up and down on him. Covering him with the wet warm fluid, holding and stroking him almost-- almost-- enough to set off his explosion, but carefully not quite. Jim knows. Jim can feel it, everything, everything. Spock sobs in frustration, thrusts, trembles.

And then Jim lifts his hand away, moves his legs, changes position-- still facing Spock, but spread across his lap now, and there is a new deluge of sensation, and oh-- oh-- Spock cannot breathe for a moment. 

Soft, well-lubricated flesh rests on the swollen head of his member-- just pressing-- just beginning to part for him. 

And at the same instant, behind him, below... an echo of the same feeling from the other perspective, Jim's. Being parted, just barely. Unimaginable heat, just beginning to press in.

Nearly as vivid as his own sensation, and-- oh-- yes-- yes, yes-- the two feelings, taken together, are close to the verge of what will utterly overwhelm him.

Spock arches his back, cries out, wants to lose himself to an unthinking frenzy of motion-- but even as his legs tremble with the urge, he still cannot stop looking at Jim.

He has researched this act in some detail. He understands the mechanisms whereby it can bring pleasure for both participants. And yet-- as with so many of these acts-- the part of him that urgently craves the pleasure has, until now, been warring with other parts that find the whole concept to be... distasteful and... highly undignified.

He has always imagined that if the blood fever ever came to this... if Jim offered him this... he would feel so desperately sorry, even as he claimed his release. He would beg forgiveness, from his strong, dynamic, compelling captain, for taking him like this, in a position so degrading.

And yet... Jim, poised astride Spock, about to let him enter... does not look, at all, degraded or undignified.

He is naked, yes, the satin robe having fallen to the floor at some point. He is hard, so hard that the tip of him is purple, and his hand rests around it, not stroking yet but ready to. His expression is nothing but ecstasy. He arches back like a marble statue of some god of beauty and grace. 

All that makes him command respect is still there. Spock, even in his need, even on the verge of thrusting into his body, is compelled to gaze on James Kirk in awe.

Jim takes a breath, gains enough control of himself to focus his eyes down upon Spock. "Is this what you want?" he asks. "Do you want me to move down onto you, open for you, take you inside? Let you push into me-- penetrate me-- come inside me?" 

A little more pressure, a small clench of muscles. Jim's lips and cheeks flush hotter, darker. "Spock. Do you want to fuck me?"

Spock bucks upward with a sound that is nearly a scream. 

Oh. Oh, he is beyond all control now. Jim has burnt his logic to nothing. There could be no rational reason for that question, no possible chance Jim did not know the answer already, and yet-- 

Spock understands now. Understands why Jim wanted to hear him speak of his need, that first time. Such words from Jim-- ah! Oh, yes, by all gods yes, ah-- such words ignite just the same-- scandalous fire in Spock. 

Jim is not Vulcan, far from it, and yet-- he so seldom speaks of indecent things. If he does, he wraps them in such gentle innuendo. Spock can count on his hands the number of times he has heard Jim use words that were obscene by human standards. And now, to have this human straddling his lap, asking, with such naked clarity, for--

Yes. Yes. Yes! Ah! Fuck, yes!

He is lost to flame. His hips jolt up, his head tosses back, he moans with no more restraint at all, and the bond is afire with Jim's reaction. As he surges upward, Jim stretches his thighs apart and descends to meet him, and he pushes all at once inside, clenched in sudden slick wet tightness that is both cool balm and fever heat, he cannot tell anymore. It quenches and ignites him, eases and spurs him on, nothing is logic now, all is paradox. He thrusts and thrusts, burning, moaning, taking, being taken.

The sharing of sensations-- it intensifies, a bright flash, and all at once Spock can so clearly feel the echo, the rough intimacy of being spread wide, being entered. Ah--! 

Oh, yes, Oh--!

He knew about the anatomy involved, the prostate gland, the inner erogenous spots, but oh fuck, oh god yes, he had no idea it felt like this. Jim's pleasure is supernovae and fireworks and tsunamis and the pull of a black hole and -- Spock cannot fucking think, he devours and devours the pleasure, both sides of it, fucks Jim and fucks himself, comes in a convulsing wave but it's not enough, comes again and again and it cannot ever be enough.

There are brief moments when he is lucid enough to be glad of the restraints, because if he were free he would have Jim beneath him-- would be clutching him with bruising hands, biting him, fucking him with his entire Vulcan strength, hard enough to shatter human bones. Perhaps the bond would hold him back but he cannot put any trust in that, because feeling pain would not stop him right now. 

Right now he would gladly take a mixture of ten parts pain to one part pleasure. Right now he would fuck hard enough to kill both Jim and himself. There are flashes of time when the madness takes over and he believes, wholly believes, that is what he is doing. And then there is a jolt of terror, then a moment of relief, of gratitude for the tightness of the bindings on his limbs. 

And in those lucid moments he continues to see Jim, still incomparably beautiful, spread across him, his face still glowing with pleasure-- sometimes Spock sees him in climax, sees his ejaculation burst from him as he leans back, clenches, lets his mouth fall open in sounds of ecstasy. Jim is safe, Jim is alive-- 

And then there is a moment when Jim leans forward. He pulls himself almost entirely off of Spock's still-aching hardness, and rests with his hands on Spock's chest, gripping roughly at his nipples through the uniform shirt. Spock screams deep in his throat, shoves his chest hungrily upward at the same time that his hips twist and buck and vainly try to plunge him deep inside once more. 

But Jim has control and is not permitting it, just yet. He lowers his mouth, bites wetly at Spock's nipples through the fabric until Spock is quivering, wordlessly begging. 

Jim kisses and bites gently up his chest, his-- his neck-- Spock's legs are trembling, tingling again with the beginning of release but unable to reach it, oh, this will kill him--

And then at his ear again, Jim's breath warm and damp and whispering-- rough, low, interspersed with panting-- "Fuck me." And then-- his lips wrap around the edge of Spock's ear, and he-- he licks, softly bites, all the way to the tip, his mouth obscenely wet around the point of Spock's ear for an unbearable second-- and then again, words, breath. "Fuck me."

Spock cannot stop the utter inferno that overtakes him. He is coming before Jim even begins to lower himself. He is disintegrating in flame, every muscle contracting so hard that he feels he shall shatter apart. Jim allows him inside, gasping, opening for him and stretching tight as Spock's thickness shoves into him, swells and throbs and comes. Spock twists against the restraints, against his clothing, the wet marks from Jim's mouth on his shirt rub and stimulate him, his ear still tingles in the air from where Jim's mouth touched it, from where Jim's -- words-- His cock jolts uncontrollably, again, again, his fluid leaks out Jim's passage around him, there is so much lubrication now and still he cannot stop coming--

It seems it will never end, but gradually it does. Lightheaded, drained of energy, he relaxes beneath Jim, feeling that he is floating.

He cannot remember the last time that he actually felt satisfied. The feeling is hard to recognize at first.

For the first time in days, he sleeps. It is dreamless. 

When he wakes, Jim is returning from the bathroom, sipping from a glass of water. He sees Spock's eyes open, sets it down, licks the drops of it from his lips, and comes back to bed.

By now, the corner between Spock's side and his outstretched, restrained arm somehow seems like the natural place for Jim to settle and rest, as if he has always lived there.

Jim's hand touches the knots at Spock's wrist for a moment. "I can untie you for a while," he says. 

The thought terrifies Spock. He knows this is not over yet. He will lose control again, perhaps soon. "No."

But Jim has concern only for Spock's comfort. "Do you need anything? Food? Water? The restroom?"

Spock shakes his head. "Those body functions cease entirely during this time," he says. "Because they would interrupt the..." His face heats and he still cannot say it. "The necessary activities."

"Hmm." Jim nods, interested, absorbing it like any of Spock's science lectures.

There is some comfort in this hint of the old routine of their friendship. As if perhaps things haven't changed too much between them, as if maybe they haven't ruined whatever has always made Jim's company one of the few, quiet joys of Spock's life. 

And the feel of a science lecture is reassuringly familiar. Even if it is on... this subject. 

"Eating and drinking cease in the early stages," he continues, "after a brief time of increased appetite. Then the body focuses upon storing all nutrients from previous meals, and directing them where their energy can most efficiently fuel the act of... of..." 

No. This subject will not do. The moment of feeling normal again has shattered.

"Mmm." Jim arches his neck, opens his lips as his head falls back. "Ohh. I feel it. Every time the fever comes back for you. Will I always be able to feel what you feel?"

"Not always," Spock says, taking deep slow breaths, trying to buy time against the next descent into madness. "Bonded couples learn instinctively how to shield from each other. And the sharing of sensations is not as deep, not as intense, once... this... is over."

"But it will still be there," Jim says. "Good. I want to be able to feel it. Maybe not all the time, but... Oh. I'm... I'm learning to like it. Very much."

Spock makes a wordless sound of agreement, or maybe just of blatant sexual urge. 

"I'm here for you," Jim whispers. "Tell me. Whatever you want."

It is still resonating in the back of Spock's mind, the feeling that echoed from Jim when their bodies joined in that way. The echo, even just as an echo of Jim's sensation, still throbs in his memory, so hot, raw, intense. 

The beast inside him is jealous, greedy, wanting more than an echo. He hungers to feel it firsthand, to have that pleasure for himself. 

Does his half-Vulcan body even contain a spot that could do that to him? 

He does not know. But he wants to try, wants Jim to spread him open searching for it.

He trembles, breathes unevenly, opens his legs beyond the angle at which the bonds are already holding them.

"Tell me," Jim says. The flashes of emotion Spock is getting are not enough. He still cannot tell if Jim is really asking-- or if Jim has already felt what Spock wants, and is just asking to hear him say it.

"I want--" He fights, again, wrestles with the tendrils of Vulcan upbringing that restrain him tighter than the nano-parsecord. 

Jim licks his lips, waiting. 

And Spock is sure now that he is just hungry to hear it, because Jim has his own strange human form of the blood fever, and, for some perverse reason, it feeds on the sight and sound of Spock losing control. Of Spock giving in, showing naked lust, being unable to hold back the expression of how much he... wants.

And just as perversely, the thought of how much that inflames Jim-- 

\--That just makes Spock long for it more. Makes him yearn for the ability to say whatever obscene things Jim wants to hear from him. To whisper filthy pleas in Jim's ear, beg for his cock, make him melt into helpless need, make him burn the way Spock is burning. To see Jim's loss of control, Jim's unfettered desire, just as Jim wants to see his. Yes, damn it, yes-- he and Jim have the same urge, the same perversion. He cannot deny it. Let it drag them both down into flame together.

It makes him moan, thrust, tug at the restraints. Makes the words finally rush out, mingling with the whimpers and gasps that are their own form of begging.

"What I just-- did to you," he manages to say. "I want you to-- to--" His head tips back and his legs spread wider as the urge shudders through him once more. "T-to... do it. To me." 

He sees the fire he hoped to ignite in Jim's eyes. What he has said is enough, for Jim. 

But to Spock himself, it is shame and more shame, to both his Vulcan and human halves. Both lust and science, in his mind, cringe at it, condemn it as a poor demonstration of the extensive research he has boasted of doing. He knows there are far more specific words, which would sound more knowledgeable and-- and more pleasurable to Jim's ears.

But even these vague words, all he can manage-- they are so, so hard for him to force out. Because, in any form, they are a confession of his deepest shame, his weakness, his... humanity. His want, his obscene uncontrolled desire, for something emotional, primitive, devoid of logical purpose.

"But of course it has a purpose, Spock, it's helping keep you alive." 

He doesn't know who says those words. They sound-- or perhaps just feel-- like Jim. But they are not exactly spoken aloud. They are not even, fully, words. Is Spock descending into hallucination again? Or is Jim already beginning to learn communication through the bond? 

It does not really matter. Spock would like to believe the thought, wherever it comes from. But he does not think it is true. 

He has (to his further shame) not done quite as much research about Vulcan sexuality as human. But he doubts that his ability to survive this will actually depend on having the specific pleasures that he craves. Survival in pon farr is dependent upon receiving sexual stimulation. He has never read that the type of stimulation matters. Only the amount, and sometimes one's attunement to the partner who provides it. 

This... This is just his greed, his meaningless lust. Sullying the pon farr with his humanity. Adding more shame to something that already shames his father's world. A half-human embarrassment to all of Vulcan.

And yet... 

Vulcan is not here. Jim is here. 

And Jim, here, now, is not asking what will save his life. Jim has asked him what he wants. 

And Spock has answered him honestly.

Is that not, at least, in some small way, logical?

"Oh yes." 

The voice is a lusty growl. But Jim is not answering his unspoken question. Jim is only responding to his barely-meaningful confession of desire. 

Or perhaps just expressing his own desire, since Jim murmurs these words while sitting astride Spock's lap, rubbing himself between Spock's still-clothed thighs as he lets the energy of arousal flow through the mind-link and equalize the pressure in their erections. "Ohhh yes. Yes. Ahh. Yes, I can do that for you. Just a moment."

He's hard enough to match Spock, now, and Spock can feel that it's an effort for him to pull away. "The clothes, though. I'm-- I'm going to have to untie your legs for a while."

Spock's face burns, but he nods assent. His clothing, by now, is a rumpled mess of sweat and semen, no more dignified than nakedness. And his uniform trousers, at least, must be removed before Jim can--

The thought of it ignites him, makes him afraid again, of the violence of his need. 

But-- the bindings on his arms will still hold him. He cannot do that much harm while...

Jim is already untying, gently massaging his lower legs, then moving up to his hips and easing down the waistband of his pants and underwear until he can pull them off and throw them to the floor, leaving Spock's entire legs, thighs, hips... exposed. Naked.

"It'll-- it'll be a different angle now," Jim murmurs, his hands on Spock's legs, helping him reposition them. Spock can feel Jim's desire rising, Jim's control flaking away, just as fast as his own. But Jim works quickly. He finds a pillow to slide beneath Spock's hips, raising them. Spock feels the new shape of his desire, knees bent, thighs parted wide. Feels Jim tie him into this new shape, leaving more extra cord, more range of motion, but the knots around his ankles just as tight.

It is done just in time. The fever surges, his flesh leaps to full, aching arousal in less than a second, and Jim's response happens the same moment, no delay in the mind-link at all anymore. 

Their eyes meet and all Spock can see is fire. 

His captain's eyes are flame.

Spock knows now, with a shiver, that there is a possibility Jim will lose control-- genuinely lose himself to violence, as if the blood fever were fully within him. That maybe Spock's fears were the wrong way around-- that it may be Jim who injures Spock. Who is now bound and helpless, unable to fight back.

Spock will accept it. Jim cannot hurt him nearly as much as he could have hurt Jim. It can still not be more than ten parts pain to one part pleasure; Spock's burning blood will not care.

As control falls away, he knows he will welcome it, he will relish the pain as much as the pleasure. The blood fever will leave him no choice. Both of them will still burn out the fever and find their release. And deal with the healing later. 

But please, let it not happen-- let Jim not have to face that guilt--

Jim's mind is strong. Spock watches the struggle in his face-- and watches the strength of his mind triumph.

Jim is trembling, his breathing ragged, but his eyes are clear as he finds the lubricant. His hands are unsteady, rougher than he means to be, Spock knows, as he feels them between his legs. Preparing him, more hurriedly than Jim prepared himself. Spock will not need the enema as Jim did, his digestive system has been completely empty for many days now, but-- ahh-- the lubrication, and the fingers applying it, are-- quite necessary. He is grateful Jim was capable of this, at least.

He knows he is clenched tight; he does not know if anything Jim does can release this tension. Every touch seems to make him clench harder. Oh, he needs this. His control is no more intact than Jim's. It is desire that tightens his every muscle, desire so urgent that it is nearly panic. 

But Jim spreads as much lubrication as he can, stretches him with his fingers as much as he can-- before the feeling of it overwhelms his crumbling control, compels him to claim his mate, to mount and penetrate Spock in place of the fingers. 

And he is there, arms around Spock's legs, lifting them, positioning himself and struggling, again, for a tortured second, with his control. Wanting, so badly, Spock can feel through the bond, to move more slowly-- both for Spock's comfort and to stretch out his own pleasure, to make this last longer. But with a sob he fails, this time, to win the battle, and breaches Spock's opening too fast, a small hot burst of pain that reverberates between them. 

And yet--once he is inside, the head of his erection spreading Spock open, however tightly-- Spock's body adjusts. 

Pleasure, any pleasure, can overwhelm pain now. The fever feels the beginning of penetration and it ignores the pain, responds only to the stimulation, wants -- ahhh! Wants more, deeper, fuller, tighter-- 

He stretches, he welcomes Jim, his hips push back and his muscles manage to relax just enough, in their burning need for it, to let Jim thrust further. It is still so fucking tight, almost impossible for Jim to move, even with the lubricant... the feeling is there, throbbing through the bond, the slippery heat and clench that is almost pain around Jim but it is still so-- ah!-- so-- fucking-- good. 

And-- it happens. The positions of their bodies align just right, and Jim in his frenzy manages to push across the exact spot inside Spock's body-- perhaps not quite where it would be in a human, perhaps a little harder for Jim to reach, but it is there, oh, the same trigger point of needy, fever-stricken nerve endings-- 

They both feel that first electric impact-- Spock's sensations beginning to ignite and explode from within-- Jim hungrily absorbing the reflection of it through the mind link, groaning and pushing deeper as he tries, tries hard to keep hitting the same point, keep the same sensation aflame. 

But the inner motion of flesh is deceptive, the spot hard to find again, exactly-- although every movement tugs at something connected to it, every push makes the building, growing tingle more intense.

The climax is gathering, but too, too slowly, and Spock thrashes and shoves back and clenches but it is still-- not-- enough-- he needs to come, needs it, this one last time and he is sure it will be enough, but he can't-- 

Jim is fully on top of him now, their faces close together, his legs stretched wide apart and Jim panting against his face as he thrusts into him, Spock still excruciatingly erect, pressed tight between their stomachs, leaking pre-ejaculate against the uniform shirt with every motion, but still not able to--

Jim cries out in shared frustration. He buries his face in Spock's neck, growls-- bites him, the pressure sharp and hard and wet and-- 

Spock shudders, so close now, and returns the favor at the side of Jim's neck-- knowing the danger, in the back of his mind, knowing that his strength could be too much for this, by now, but oh, the taste, the feel of Jim's neck, the echo of the delicious pain, the sounds Jim makes-- 

He cannot keep doing it any longer, though, he has to break it off, gasping hard, just to breathe. And he is so, so close to the edge now, but not--

As his teeth leave Jim's neck and his head falls back to gasp in air, Jim-- in the grip of some sudden, irresistible impulse-- seizes the moment, seizes the sides of his face and pulls him against Jim's own, mouths meeting in a rough and clumsy kiss.

Somehow, even after everything, this is what shocks him to the core, burns him deeper than anything, deeper than even the frantic thrusts inside him right now. The intimacy of mouth on mouth, all the soft, wet textures and how each feels against Jim's tongue, against his tongue, and the way the sensations all intensify as Jim presses, leans harder into it, pulls their faces together as if he would physically merge-- 

For a second Spock is simply unable to get enough air anymore. He breaks the kiss, swearing he will interrupt the contact just barely long enough to take in a breath--

But once the breath is in his throat, an urge, a volcano of need, rises within him that is perhaps more intense than any need he has felt so far. 

His body is on fire, shuddering all over with potential energy that screams to be set free, his cock aches and begs for touch, his inner walls stretched tight around his captain are clamoring for a thrust that would give him release-- 

And yet what the fever craves now, right now, more than any of this-- He opens his mouth, gasping for it. The words. The words. The freedom to say it.

He cannot. It is too strong. The shame is stronger then the pon farr, it always has been-- that is why he almost let it kill him, the first time, and only Jim was able to stop it-- that is why the world of Vulcan has not descended into chaos, because there must be something more powerful than the urges of pon farr, able to hold them back, and that something is this accursed Vulcan shame.

He cannot say the words that Jim spoke, so freely, when Jim was in Spock's place not so many moments ago. He can think them-- can long for them, desperately need them, but not--

His head thrashes back and forth, his hips rise with desperation and frustrated need, he groans and spreads his thighs, and begs with the entire wordless energy of the bond, but it is not the same, not--

He screams, his throat rough-- screams, cries out until finally he finds a word.

"Harder." At first it is barely more than a breath. But as he twists and strains beneath Jim he is able to say it again, louder, and again until it is almost a roar. "Harder!"

Oh. Oh. Oh, gods yes, he can see what it does to Jim. Fire, and trembling lips, hot uncontrolled breath, blood rising in the human face, eyes suffused with fire.

"Harder!"

And whatever traces of control remained-- whatever had held Jim, by some fraction, back from what he needed -- is gone. 

His captain tosses his head back with a helpless moan and gives his entire strength to thrusting-- harder, harder-- forgetting any thoughts of pain or danger, roaring and taking Spock harder, deeper-- 

And now he is doing it, cannot help doing it, jostling with every thrust against the gland that had eluded him before, because thrusts this hard cannot help but collide with it. Every time he hits it, sparks ignite something within them both, an overwhelming, shivering, tingling buildup of energy and it is beginning, oh fuck yes, it is happening now--

And Jim bends down and kisses him again-- harder, this time, harder, the kiss as well as the thrusts. Devours him, claims him with teeth and tongue, presses so hard their breath is nearly gone once more and now Spock doesn't care-- he is coming--

The violent climactic shudder begins deep inside his body this time, where he is spread and stretched so wide, so tightly filled-- and it takes his entire being, all of him, in one instantaneous, breathless and violent rush-- there is no part of him it does not reach. Every muscle is seizing, jerking-- his thighs, his shoulders, his back, his throat, his cheeks and eyebrows -- his wrists and ankles, where ordinary skin has become an exploding erogenous minefield and even the pressure of the bindings is a touch that multiplies the shiver of ecstasy that is already claiming every cell. 

He feels everything-- everything-- every touch exponentially increased. Every centimeter of skin is now as burningly sensitive as the head of his erection and the slick walls within him. Each infinitesimal moment of friction, from the slide of Jim's tongue on his lip to the shift of a wrinkle in the sheet against his back-- is as blatant and overwhelming a sensation as the sweat-slicked drag of Jim's skin against his spasming cock-- as the lubricated, intimate pressure of Jim's rough thrusts inside his own clenching, shuddering body. 

He is the pleasure. He is the flame. He is the orgasm, the mindless exploding culmination of the pon farr. There is nothing else in him. It shatters him, disintegrates him to dust and ashes.

He floats. He is nothing for a while.

Time passes. He is not sure how much.

Spock's eyes open to quiet murmurings of confusion, through the mind link. He turns to Jim, curious.

"Just..." Jim looks into the middle distance, blinking. "Trying to figure out if it's over. It feels different now..."

"It is." Spock nods. Words come to him now, without effort. Thoughts are clear, lucid, as if he has brushed something out of his eyes and can see again.

His hands... 

He moves them. The bindings have been untied. 

Despite the question Jim is asking, Jim already knows, in the center of his soul, that the danger is past.

"My life, my control, is no longer at risk. It has ended." And my life is yours. I owe you everything. He does not know how to say this last thought, so he lets it hang unspoken in the air. His arm reaches around Jim's shoulders, holding him close, before his mind even conceives of doing so.

Jim nestles against him, absorbs the spoken words and the unspoken thought. "But I can still feel something... not quite like it, but... Residual effects?"

Spock shakes his head, feeling his face flush just slightly. "My average physical and mental condition when in close proximity to you."

Jim's eyes widen. "...Oh."

Silence, for a moment.

"So, you really are... able to. Any time of the seven-year cycle."

"Indeed." And, even as exhausted and sated as he feels right now, the sound of those words from Jim...

"Ah." A spark of amusement through the bond. "And it's also not only... during that time... that you like it when I..."

"Jim." 

"When I say things that..."

The blush has spread all the way to the tips of his ears. "I would perhaps not find it so shocking, so... provocative... if such discussion were more regularly part of your vocabulary, as it is with many other humans." 

"Ah." The side of Jim's mouth twists in a smile. "I suppose I can relate to that. After all, if you were in the habit of talking dirty all the time, I don't suppose that you just looking at me and saying 'Indeed,' like that, would be making me get hard all over again." 

Spock's head leans back, eyes close, cheeks flush deeper. Oh, Jim still has the upper hand in this game, because Jim has no shame to hold him back.

"So--" Jim's smile is playful, conspiratorial. "You're saying, if it were more of an everyday occurrence, for me to ask you to... fuck me..."

"Jim!" 

Desire rises again, normal desire, normal for his human half at least. A feeling that has been shaming Spock for years... but now, after what has passed, it feels like relief. He is master of it; he can save it for later. Jim will be here a long time.

"Is it specifically human words?" Jim is teasing him, and it is disturbing that he enjoys it so. "What words do Vulcans consider dirty?" He leans close, up against Spock's ear again, and his voice goes low, breathy, sultry. "Undistributed middle. Illicit conversion. Ad hominem circumstantial..."

"Jim." Spock tries, and fails, to raise an eyebrow in his usual controlled and graceful way. He does not know what facial expression he actually achieves. "I am-- neither scandalized nor aroused-- by mentions of logical fallacies--" 

But he cannot say the same for the sound and feel of the breath that speaks them.

And in the midst of his reaction is a blossoming of pure wonder. If it had words to it, perhaps they would be something like, "This. This is the human I have just married."

Jim hears the thought, puts it into words in his own mind. 

Murmurs the word "married." Lies back with a wry smile. 

"What ever will our families think of it?"

Spock closes his eyes. "I expect the response will be varied and complex. My own immediate family, my mother and father... they will have some difficulty expressing their response, but they will understand."

"Hmm." Spock can hear the thoughtful nod in Jim's voice. "I suppose they will. Our situation is somewhat like theirs, isn't it."

"Indeed." He does not really want to consider this subject, but it cannot be avoided forever. "Marriages between humans and Vulcans are still so very uncommon. My parents, of course, were the first to capture the public eye. As for... same-sex human-Vulcan couples... you and I are likely the first. Certainly the first who will receive widespread media attention."

Jim groans softly. "That will be an experience."

"I do not relish the thought of it. Particularly in regard to Vulcan." 

Oh, the thing he does not want to think of is getting closer. "Even as the first, there are precedents which dictate how such couples will be treated. There have always been Vulcans who took mates whom society viewed as... unsuitable, for whatever reasons prevailed in the society of the time."

"Mhm." Jim's understanding pulses through the bond. "Same on every planet, I suppose."

Spock's hand tenses, a small fraction, against Jim's back. "And, in such cases, it tends to be publicly assumed... Not publicly stated. Never. But assumed, hinted, implied. That their union took place under... circumstances..."

"Ahh." Jim is laughing, now, a bit ruefully. "Circumstances like ours?"

"Indeed." Spock wishes he could laugh. Wishes this concept did not threaten to drown him again in shame. "In our case, the most frequent assumption-- the thought in the mind of most Vulcans who see us together-- will be-- largely accurate." 

Spock tries, tries very hard, not to let it into his mind. 

Not to think of strangers-- Vulcans who already view him as a somewhat distasteful curiosity-- with their heads full of prurient speculation about... this. This time. The crumbling of his physical and mental control. The vulnerable, undignified, delicious and helpless and deeply private positions he has found himself in, which he can endure the thought of because it was with Jim, and no one else, no other humans or Vulcans anywhere near them. 

The prospect of others thinking about it veers dangerously close to the fear of others seeing him like this.

"It is a... a complex social position to occupy. My parents occupy it. My mother has even spoken to me of it, briefly, privately, in clearer words than a Vulcan would use." 

Perhaps if he keeps talking he will not have to think. 

"There is... pity. There is some silent judgement of one's family, for not arranging a properly-matched marriage before it was needed. One's life is used as a cautionary tale-- after a fashion, couched in euphemisms and hints. An example of the lesson to keep close track of time and prepare for all possibilities. An example of the misfortune that can occur otherwise."

"Well." Jim presses a kiss into Spock's shoulder, and Spock can feel the smile. "They don't know what they're missing, do they." 

A sigh raises and lowers Spock's chest. "One is not exactly... blamed for it. Society does acknowledge it as an accident of circumstance, which cannot be prepared for in every case. One cannot choose, after all, when one's... need... will arise. Nor on whom it will fixate. Other Vulcans know that it could have happened to them. One's logic is not... faulted, really, for doing what was necessary when there was no choice..."

Jim laughs again, a wondering chuckle, and Spock pauses, irked.

"Nothing," Jim says. "I just thought of something I heard your father say, once. To a question about why he chose your mother. 'At the time, it seemed like the logical thing to do.'"

"Indeed." Spock tries even harder not to think of it. 

"Do you suppose he meant..."

"I do not know, nor do I wish to know, whether the speculation is true in their case. It is their private matter. I would not pry into it, and nor should you."

It comes out angrier than Spock meant it, and he whispers, "I am sorry" at almost the same time Jim does.

"Sorry," Jim says again. "You're right, of course you don't want to think about... No. I shouldn't have brought that up."

"I... I do not want to think about... any of this. I apologize, Jim. If I am being too harsh, it is because I am having difficulty facing the entire concept of... others knowing. About us. About..."

"They don't have to. Not right away. We can take our time. We do not have to say anything about us publicly until we're ready, Spock."

The thought of keeping the secret-- of being Jim's formal and proper first officer in public, and his lover and husband in private-- is both strange and familiar to Spock. It would be dishonest, would make it difficult to avoid outright lies on occasion, and this does not mesh well with Spock's nature. 

Yet, in some ways, he is used to hiding things. Some things, for him, are far easier to hide than to speak of.

"And, Spock. When, if, we ever do announce it-- we can say that it was a long friendship that blossomed into romance. That we both realized that we considered each other... suitable mates. And finally spoke to each other of it, and agreed to it together."

Spock's eyebrows rise. Jim's logic is... intriguing.

"It wouldn't be a lie. I mean, we can't guarantee that everyone will believe it, or stay away from the thoughts you'd like them to avoid. But, well, we can't choose what others think." 

Jim's voice, his motions, take on the cadence of those times when he makes some profound little speech, when he allows his philosophical human thinking to ramble on in public. Spock has on occasion found it ridiculous, but also a perplexing mixture of compelling and... endearing.

"On Earth, on Vulcan, on the Enterprise. Beyond the Neutral Zone. In other galaxies, in other dimensions, in parallel universes where we don't even exist-- if people want to think of us, Spock, there's very little we can do to stop them."

Spock does manage the eyebrow lift, now, finally. The perfect subtle quirk, expressing disdain for illogic on the surface, but affection, amusement, to those who know how to see it. "Jim. The news is... unlikely to spread that far, the fame of the Enterprise notwithstanding."

Jim shrugs, a tolerant smile on his lips. "I'm just trying to say that it may be something we have to get used to. I mean, of course there's been... speculation about us already."

Spock blushes, forgets to breathe for a second. 

He has not been aware of such speculation. But now he cannot believe he did not deduce its existence. It is such an obvious thought, and yet it has not occurred to him before, not consciously-- perhaps because his conscious mind simply could not bear to consider it.

Of course others are already thinking about them, and have been for years. Imagining the two of them, in whatever scenarios their imaginations provide. On Vulcan, the speculation is already involving the pon farr. Anyone who has heard the whispered rumor that he survived his first cycle without taking T'Pring as a mate...

And yet. He has survived such speculation, too, unaware of it as he was. He has not been made a laughingstock. He has still been treated with basic respect and dignity, by Earth and by his home planet. 

Perhaps this will not change so much.

"And, Spock. Anyone who is that curious about us, who pays that much attention to us... I trust they will be able to see that our mating is-- suitable. Well-matched. No matter how it began."

The sense of wonder intensifies. Spock feels the truth of the words, and yet cannot quite reason how they are true-- how this strange and mercurial being of light and fire and feeling can be such a well-matched mate for him, for Spock. 

"I'm going to make you say it, you know."

His confusion flows through the bond, but Jim just smiles. 

"All of it. Everything. Every word I want to hear from you. I don't know how long it'll take me. Maybe it'll be seven years from now. But I'm going to hear you say it."

And this desire, this human-normal desire, is utterly taking him over now, in a way both like and unlike the pon farr. He feels the truth of these words too. Someday, in a fire Jim ignites, he will be able to speak even the words that shame has yet held back, all the words that will let him see Jim crumble into flame and need for him.

Someday Jim will free him.

This. This is the human I have married.


End file.
